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EGBERT WILLARD FOWLER 



POEMS 

Egbert JVillard Fowler 




Boston: Richard G. Badger 
The G or ham Press IQO^ 



Copyright 1905 by Richard G. Badger 
All rights reserved 



iSRARY of OCWeffESS 
Two Oopiea ftecwvwi 

MAR 16 1905 

iJopyrigiu 3:f!try 

^Uiss a. AAC. m\ 






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Printed at 

The G or ham Press 

Boston, U. S. A. 



PREFACE 

A POSTHUMOUS book requires some 
word of comment, especially if the author 
is unknown. The poems offered in this 
volume embrace the three years of his life 
which Egbert Willard Fowler, after abandoning the 
dramatic profession, devoted to literary work: 1897- 
1900. They are poems of temperament, mood and 
experience, collected and arranged for publication 
by him, while fighting the disease which carried him 
off a year later. They were not Intended for one 
volume, but the author's untimely death justifies the 
editor's deviation from the original plan. The three 
groups collectively are more likely to give a glimpse 
of the personality of Egbert Willard Fowler, than 
any one of them separately. The first bears evidence 
of tentative experiments with form, and with few 
exceptions contains his earlier efforts. The ''Mood 
Pageant" Is an interlude, the pose of an artist, revel- 
ling In a newly found medium of expression. The 
last group explains Itself; the author had found his 
way back to the native soil, to nature. 

It Is needless to say, he was self-taught: a type of 
Young America, whose artistic temperament instinc- 
tively seeks and trains Itself on what Is best in the 
world's art and literature, though lacking the disci- 
pline of academic education. But readers to whom 

3 



a strong individual note is apt to appeal, will readily 
detect it between the lines of these poems. Egbert 
Willard Fowler in his life and in his work stood 
apart from the average poet type. 

Although Mr. William Struthers' acquaintance 
with the author was confined to the specimens of his 
verse published in the "Conservator," his "Thren- 
ody: to Egbert Willard Fowler" in the same maga- 
zine contains a passage singularly appropriate : 

For in you throbbed 
The pulse of homely joys, 
And tenderly your heart 
Earth's big heart answered, 
Beat for beat! 
The violet fragrant lane, 
The field, brook-signatured, 
Where cows found food and drink 
And farmlads came to fish ; 
The woodland concert hall. 
Where, on your back, 
With eyes upturned, 
You harked a new bird song — 
These gave you true delight! 
Yet Life was hard and tense 
And offered no warm hand 
Of Fellowship, 
For all your thought of her! 

4 



Why wonder that you turned 
To Life's pale sister, Death, 
To seek, not chill and fear, 
But cool, sweet draughts of sleep 
For fevered, famished lips! 

For the few readers who knew Egbert Willard 
Fowler intimately the volume has the value of a 
human document. 

Grateful acknowledgment is due to Mr. George 
Schumm, a friend of the author and the editor, for 
suggestions offered and kind assistance in preparing 
the book for the press. 

A. von Ende. 



CONTENTS 






A Prayer . . . . . . 13 


The Holy Day 








13 


June Siesta . 








14 


The Love Message 








16 


A Day of Dreams 








17 


Elfin Treasure 








17 


A Soul-Flash 








18 


The Charm 








19 


A Benison 








20 


Elixir of Sunshine 








21 


A Vigil 








23 


Keynote 








25 


The Heart Quest 








26 


Awakening . 








28 


The Aftermath 








29 


The Master 








30 


Love-Conception 








32 


The Sea Song 








33 


A Cry in the Night 








35 


Lnpressions 








. 38 


Suggestions 








46 


Requiem 








49 


A MOOD PAGEANT 


The Symbol 53 


A Hero for Worship 






53 


Three Tragedies in Little 






54 


Seer — Pain . 






• 55 


Reintegration 






55 


Progress 






56 


A Life Precept 








56 



Miser — Treasure 






57 


Lethe 






57 


A Trinity 






58 


Hell .... 






. 58 


Poppy Blood 






59 


Ghoul-Feasting 






59 


Memories 






60 


The Old Myth. Old? 






60 


To Him 






61 


The Masque 






61 


The Prodigal 






62 


A Mystery . 






62 


The Freedom-Philtre 






62 


The Golden Calf . 






63 


The Vanguard 






63 


The End of His Comedy 






63 


Troubadour Songs ; Modern 






64 


A Parable .... 






66 


The Guide 






67 


The Beacon Star . 






69 


Dreams .... 






70 


The God-Desire . 






71 


Why? .... 






72 


The Great Brotherhood 






73 


Omnipotence 






75 


The Crucified One 






76 


Bondage .... 






77 


Dream-Rest 






78 


PRAIRIE POEMS 


Stranger-Mood 85 


Night .... 




. 


85 



Peace 








86 


A Memory . 








87 


El Dorado 








88 


To a Gray Bird 








88 


Storm-Strength 








89 


A Dream-Tryst 








90 


A Prairie Storm 








91 


A Night-Ride on the Prairie 






99 


The Prairie Scourge 






lOI 


With the Fog 


. 






103 



A PRAYER 

Beside the spotted scarlet lilies in my heart, 
Set one white flower with a throat of gold. 
Make life one harmony of mystic song, 
With vast unlacing consonance of awe. 
Waft o'er my senses waves of incense rich, 
Till I am mute, and every heart-string thrills. 
And like a dim cathedral, silent, dark, 
Make my tired brain, and set one glowing light, 
Flaming and golden, o'er the altar of my love. 



THE HOLY DAY 

Forest scents, and the longing cry 

Of a bird that calls to its absent mate. 

Clear skies that glow 

With promise of May. 

Half-shy leaves that timidly peep 

I>ike points of flame 

From the warm earth-breast 

. . . Soon will the Violets bloom. 

Yes, with the ancients I cry today: 

"Awake, my heart, for the light returns! 

Awake, oh, heart, and be glad !" 

For the day of Easter 

The stone was rolled 

From my weary heart 

By a loving hand ; 

And all the briars cleared away 

That choked the flower of love. 



13 



JUNE SIESTA 

Well, well, Miss Jude, 
So you sniff at my pocket. 
You quietly hint 
That your stomach is empty. 
When we reach the three trees 
On the hill over there 
Where the sun throws a kiss — 
Through the network of leaves- 
And the shade spreads a rug 
Of dark green for our feet — 
Dark green on the gold, 
Olive-gold of the grass — 
I shall know w^hat to do. 
We may rest a while. 

We two idle vagrants 
Have plenty to-day; 
A flask of red wine 
That is sparkling and clear, 
With the fragrance of vines ; 
And a tiny green drop 
Of the liqueur so dear 
To the lover of feasts — 
Our banquet is here. 

What guests shall we have? 
Well, Omar Khayyam, 
With plenty of thumb marks 
Upon his broad pages ; 
And bold Robin Hood 
In his forester's dress — 
Slightly frayed at the edges 
But wholesome inside; 
And curly-haired Richard 
From over the sea — 
In russet and gold ; 



14 



Full of pathos and quips 
As a day of spring sunshine. 

He would like the liqueur. 
This modern boy 
With his sybarite joy 
In the good things of life — 
A joy we all share 
From Omar to Jude 
Who so eagerly picks 
At the bone over there. 

And last, but not least, 
I will place at my side 
These pages of love-songs 
And sonnets and rhymes 
From a woman we know — 
The one who knows us. 
I shall first drink to her 
The wine — which is red 
As her lips. 

Ah, to lie like a snake 
In the heat of the sun ! 
To dream — only dream — 
To sail on in a mist 
O'er a rose-colored sea, 
In a boat made of shell 
And oared by the loves 
Who sing sweet harmonies 
Which we alone can hear; 
To feel the soft grasses 
Caressing my lips 
Like the kisses of love! 
To abandon — relax — 
Become part of earth — 
A tree, or a weed. 
To lie lazily watching 

15 



The butterflies woo, 
To listen to bird-notes 
And dull drowsy hum 
Of the work-a-day bees 
Whose task never is done ! 

No thought of the future, 
No ghost from the past — 
And only the pages 
Of love on my breast ; 
With my dog nestling close 
And her trusting brown eyes 
Fixed on mine — 
And my guests — 
Old Omar and Robin, 
And gaily-dressed Dick 
'Neath my head for a pillow- 
A slim cigarette 
With curls of blue smoke. 
And then — sleep. 



THE LOVE-MESSAGE 

To-day a white carrier dove 

Brought me a scarlet flower. 

The sun with fervor smiled it into bloom, 

While gentle winds caressed it wantonly; 

The butterflies seductive kisses gave. 

And night-birds sang it wondrous songs of love. 

All night 

It lay upon the bosom of the woman. 

Upon my lips 

It withered and grew pale — 

For us it had learned these things. 



i6 



A DAY OF DREAMS 

In the shade of the plumy willows — 

We lay in idle rest, 

We three wandering ones. 

Harvest sounds stirred the air 

In dull, monotonous labor strokes. 

Bees droned as they toiled 

Amid the purple blossoms of the hedge. 

Like a golden-billowed sea 

Waved the richly laden wheat. 

We alone were idle, 

We three wandering ones — 

We alone with closed eyes lay in dream; 

Yet in that afternoon 

Three anxious souls 

Worked out in silent triumph 

The mystery of a future happiness. 



ELFIN TREASURE 

Royal-hearted Queen Titania, 
With her elfin g>'psy subjects — 
Care-free, lightsome, happy wanderers- 
Saw with scorn and pity mingled, 
Mortals strive for yellow dross. 

Then she called an elf-seer to her — 
Old and wise, a fairy Merlin. 
''What is gold the mortals strive for; 
Yellow, like the shining sunbeams, 
Bringing joys and pains unnumbered? 
Let us give them from our colters 
Gold in plenty, so abundant. 
That each child may know profusion." 

17 



So one night-fall In the spring time, 
Fairies drove the silver moon-car 
Out across the jeweled night-veil. 
Spread like sunshine o'er earth's carpet. 
Tiny flecks of gleaming gold dust — 
Wealth in plenty, royal largesse. 

Only souls with eyes may see them — 
Poet-vagrants, laughing children, 
Those unseared by Mammon's iron. 
Others blinded by the metal, 
Call them crowfoot, dandelions. 



A SOUL-FLASH 

With sovereign joy. 

In ecstacy of dream, 

I lie at rest upon the gray-green sand 

And build a lordly house 

Of rare shell treasures, 

Stolen from the coffers of the greedy sea. 

Opal and pearl my walls, 

With flashing rainbow gleams 

Of sky-sent sun-gems. 

Far, far above me 

Stretches my blue roof dome — 

Too vast for an echo's call. 

. . Honored guests — two beetles — 
Stately and brave. 
With lazy monarch-dignity, 
Come slowly to my throne. 
Emerald-splendid shine their armored backs. 
As at my side they rest 
In trusting truce-valor. 
Petals of rose that wearily fall 
Before the sun's caress, 

i8 



Serve us for food; 

And the limpid wine we drink, 

Sings as it falls in crystal flood of pearls 

Over the moss-wTeathed rocks. 

. . . Music, endless music, 

Comes from the restless waves; 

And a lilting lover lark 

Sings of free life-joy, 

Far, far above 

In the vastness of my dome-roof. 

Elf-land— 

And I am the ruler. 

Heart's-desire — 

And I have only to wait. 

My soul thrills with rarest peace, 

For now I understand the words: 

"Evefi as a little child" 



THE CHARM 

Invisible, unheard, a goddess comes 
In day or night, and on my forehead lays 
A heavy, mute caress, her beckoning 
To follow to the world where she is queen. 
And in her arms I find forgetfulness — 
When she is kindly; when perverse she grows. 
She calls me to the weary, futile past. 
Or shows grim, leering dancers in my soul. 
Oft have I traveled with her over meads, 
Where flood-voiced shades sing pagans to the morn ; 
Or else we wander wear}^ in a lane, 
Strewn thick with brambles, fog-veiled and pit- 
sown ; 
And once she laid me in the far-locked arms 
Of her who is the dream-maid of my love. 

19 



A BENISON 

In the shade-silent glade I lay 

With one golden blood-warm sunbeam 

Nestling upon my breast. 

The whispered mysteries of May 

Were trembling through the air. 

The stirring call of spring 

Had roused the soul of love — 

All nature thrilled 

And joined in unison 

The ever old, 

The always new creation hymn. 

High in the stalwart arms 

Of a Merlin-gray oak, 

Two spring-born bird lovers 

Built their first nest-home. 

With grave forebodings 

The squirrels chattered of strange winter dreams, 

And the brook laughed and sang 

As it danced in merry vagrant-freedom 

To the clear lake where white lilies bloom. 

. . . Sleep touched my eyes, 

And while I dreamed. 

The spirit-fay 

That dwells within my breast 

Sprang Ariel-free, 

And w^atched above my couch. 

. . . Pale stars 

Gleamed through the leaves when I awoke, 

And the white soul-elf 

Crept back into my breast, 

Singing a lilt of joy 

Until my senses thrilled 

With the great harmony of life. 

20 



"Why do you sing?" I asked; 

"While I lay in sleep 

Did the merry Pan-god pipe to you 

His song of earth-love? 

Did two pearl-naked nymphs 

Dance on the 'broidered green 

In sensuous ecstasy of light and life? 

Have you seen a violet 

Lift its proud face 

For its first sun-kiss?" 

"Oh, master mine, 
Great cause we have for joy; 
For while you slept. 
Two golden butterflies 
Winged their way to earth 
A-down the sun-shaft, 
And for a trysting place, 
Settled in calm content 
Upon your brow." 



ELIXIR OF SUNSHINE 

Ah! there j^ou are again. 

You shadowy wraith, 

Leering at me from beneath your cowl, 

Thrown open wantonly. 

I like your half-closed eyes. 

The smile that curves about the full red lips, 

Where two small devils dance. 

. . . Yes, we are comrades, 

Vagabonds who love nature and sunshine. 

Kisses, verse, and wine. 

You were not happy 
In the cloistral prison. 

2t 



The gloom, the hymns, the prayers 
Were not for you. 
Other delights you had 
. . . I mean in fancy. 

What golden-tressed elf 
Gave you the secret 
Of this bottled sun-gold? 
Did she steal Into your cell. 
Creeping upon a shaft 
Of glowing moonbeam? 
Or did she say In dreams 
That by such draught 
Paris won Helen, 
Egypt's sensuous queen 
Conquered her warrior? 

Well, whate'er It was, 

I thank you. 

. . . Yes, 

You should rightly have 

A blazoned monument — 

Your name In bronze, 

A rose-crowned Aphrodite, 

Her love-god. 

And a score of dancing dryads. 

. . . See, I take this glass. 

So tiny, filled with gold — 

Clear, liquid sunshine — 

And I drink to thee. 

To thy love, and to mine. 



22 



A VIGIL 

All nfght the smiling moon 

Kept watch with me. 

As to a lovinp: comrade 

I told her all the longings of my soul, 

There in the vast, eternal garden 

Nature created for her chosen gods. 

'Twas there 

The secret message came to me; — 

A breath, a word, 

Impalpable, but heard. 

The key, the sesame. 

Then I was free, 

A part of nature beautiful, 

Like Pan — 

Supreme, august. 

Mighty in lonely silence. 

Free as the winds 

That lightly kissed my temples; 

Free as the calling owls, 

The sighing trees 

And the grasses. 

No thought of care for them, 

No past, 

No future ills for me. 

Free as the over-human force, 

All-wise, innate. 

Free! 

Once free! 

Then I trembled from a nameless terror. 

The silence — so boundless, so profound, 

Was like death to a soul yet strange. 

Still I waited — 

For what, I could not tell. 

I waited like the calm hills, 

23 



The breathless trees, 

The mute-voiced birds, 

And the rocks — 

Strange altars of bygone days. 

A song arose — 

Low, majestic, organ-like. 

The mighty harmonies, 

Thrilling with passion, 

A symphony of life. 

Joy, exaltation, sorrow and despair; 

Caresses, curses, stirring notes of love; 

And through it all a whispered wail of pain. 

Aye, this song began 
When life first moved. 
It is a song of triumph — 
Exultant nature's song. 
Sung to me, 

Alone there with the moon, 
Keeping the vigil. 



24 



KEYNOTE 

Too early I sometimes think, 
I heard the imdernote 
Of pain in a laugh of joy. 
Too early I stirred the cup 
To find where the life-lees lurk. 
Too early the revelers raised 
From their faces the masks of mirth, 
And I saw grim lines of grief 
By lips that curled in smiles. 

Yes, too early the great truth came. 
That the augurs of truth can lie; 
That a gift of love, or an act of faith. 
Can bring more pain than a curse ; 
And a hand of ice can be heavily laid 
On a heart that burns with youth. 

Yet what if the grief-cut lines 

Are carved by the side of a smile; 

What if the undernote 

Is a moan or a wailing cry; 

What if the bitter lees 

Do lurk in the cup's dim depth ; 

What if the revelers 

Forget that they wildly whirl 

To the lively dance of death? 

I can laugh at the augury, 
For I hope not, nor I fear; 
I can drink of the bitter lees. 
For I also taste the sweet. 
I can smile at the gift of love 
Though it be a cruel thrust, 
I can dance with the maskers gay, 
Whirl to their melody, 
Or weep at the threnody. 

25 



The sun does not always shine — 
But as much as the golden flood 
I love the storm's wild rage, 
Or the sighing plash of the rain; 
And the sob of pain is as much 
As the smile, or the laugh of joy. 
. . . And the hand of ice I kiss — 
For it shows that my heart is strong. 



THE HEART QUEST 

Soul! Soul! 

We must awake, 

And search the wide world o'er 

For the young heart that strayed from my breast. 

Black have been the weary days 

Since in lonely longing it has roved 

Through all the echoing halls of memory 

For its absent mate. 

Soul! Soul! 

Awake and chant a wondrous lure. 

Time has lagged 

Like a day-wearied child 

Since the little heart has left us. 

Call! 

Oh, Soul, 

Call thy lure in words of golden love. 

For when the little heart is gone. 

Weary the days are. 

Heart! Heart! 

Dost thou loiter still 

Beneath the empty moonlit balcony 

Where the dead ivies cling? 

She is not there, oh Heart, 

No beckoning taper-beacon 

26 



Calls from the darkness, 

And the whispering pines 

Tell o'er and o'er 

The glory of our secret love-kisses. 

Heart! Heart! 

Dost thou search 

In the sensuous depths 

Of the wild rose thicket ? 

The petals of our couch are long ago drifted, 

And the dead June lies buried 

Beneath a pall of winter-frosted leaves. 

Heart! Heart! 

Dost thou search the busy street 

Where our eyes last met in hungry soul-kisses, 

And hot life surged into our palms 

At love's fond clasp of love? 

The gray morning mist no longer hides 

The two whose parting moments 

Ran like gray sand 

Through tired Time's careless hands. 

Ah, foolish Heart, 

Love is trampled there 

In the mad world-haste of barter. 

Heart! Heart! 

Come back to thy warm breast-home. 

Thou wilt not find her in past dreams — 

In her w4iite chamber she lies 

With purple violets upon her breast, 

And in her sleep 

She dreams of budding spring. 

Heart! Heart! 

The June will not forget, 

And the song-lure of the soul 

Is of the fair dream-future. 



27 



AWAKENING 

I went out into the glory of da)^, 

Nature was joyous, 

For spring had buried the dead winter 

In a shroud of her fragrant robe. 

Upon the earth's breast I laid my head 

And shared the mood of May. 

. . . How glorious to live. 

To feel in the breeze caresses, 

The violet scents 

And the bird harmonies, 

The thrill of the great love-prescience. 

The blood coursed like fire through my veins, 

And the dream-elf in my young heart 

Sang an exotic lure. 

"Life! 
Ah, life is a dream. 
And love is an endless song. 
Death ! 

Ah, fear not death, 
For he is no foe to youth." 

. That night 
While the light-wearied skies 
Let fall their tears of rain. 
In a narrow grave on the heath 
I laid my white child-soul ; 
And on the barren sand 
These words I traced : 
"Rest here in peace, unknowing one, 
For life has lied to thee. 
And fed thy heart too long 
On naught but lotus honey." 



28 



THE AFTERMATH 

I dream of thee ... a waking dream 
For choked with dust of old desires, 
Sleep flees from me, and tortures me 
With coquetries and promises 
Of restful, silent vacancy. 

Forth from the magic of the night. 

In though you come, come close to me; 

And rend the curtains of your heart 

To let the light of love gleam bright 

Into the caverns of the past. 

The past? — A masque of mockery; 

A juggler's careless trickery 

With hearts for globes of gilt. 

"I dream of thee, I think of thee.** 

Your words are like a melody, 

A song a solemn monody. 

The answer to my unprayed prayer; 

Your answer to my doubt, my fear. 

All night's delusive sorcery. 

''/ dream of thee." The melody 

Is but a lure, derisively 

Sung by a jeering Lorelei, 

Who offers love with trickery. 

"I dream of thee, I think of thee." 
I strain my eyes perplexedly 
To read the gray dawn's prophecy. 
Naught comes to me, naught can I see. 
The wall of life which day by day 
We build across the backward way 
Will ne'er be scaled. 
In tortured glee I hope, I pray 
That you awake and cry with me 
Across the chasm of the years: 

29 



''I dream of thee. I long for thee. 

Sad in the zuhirl of gaiety, 

I stretch my arms into the night 

To clutch a dream . . , a vacancy. 



THE MASTER 

Bow! Bow low and cheer 
As to a mighty one ; 
For as a master I come 
On my flame-tipped wings, 
And in my hands I bear 
Great gifts for all. 

Touch but my garments 

And thy soul will thrill — 

For I enslave and free. 

Look deep into my eyes 

Where steep the tears 

Of wan, w^hite poppy bloom. 

Kiss my warm lips 

Sweet with the breath 

Of passionate spring; 

And clasp me close to thee. 

For from a wound 

Cut deep into my heart 

The fire of life streams forth. 

Bow, bow low to me, 

And w^ake the hills 

To music in my praise. 

For I am the mighty one; 

All nature moves in my womb. 

Lilies and nightshade 

Twine close in my streaming tresses, 

And from my breasts 

Men suck valor and fear. 



30 



From the crystal bowl in my hands, 

Cool drops fall 

Down, down to the hot hell-world ; 

White peace follows in my track 

And bloody wars have been fought in my name. 

Bow, bow low and cheer, 

And wake the echoing vales 

With music of my name; 

For as a master I come 

On my flame-tipped wings, 

And at the touch of my garments 

All whom I rule are raised. 

Warm are my greedy lips 
With the passionate glow of life. 
And my eyes are ever bathed 
In the tears of white poppy bloom. 
From the crj^stal bowl in my hands 
Fall drops of sorrow and joy. 
And in my tresses are twined 
White lilies and black nightshade. 

No mortal has ever gazed 
Upon my close-veiled brows — 
Only in silent dreams 
Do I bare my face to man. 
Bow, bow low and cheer 
For I am the mighty one. 
Time and death are my slaves, 
And their master's name is — Love. 



31 



LOVE— CONCEPTION 

No spoken word. She looked into his eyes. 
He looked at her. No need had they for words. 
"My love!" A sudden fear clutched at her heart. 
"My love!" A burst of sunlight flooded warm his 

soul. 
"Turn back! Oh, look again and run to greet. 
I am thy mate . . . thy other self . . . 
The flame of life is lit — the holy flame." 

Youth surges through the veins. The old desires 
Of virgin-sacred days, hungers and burns. — 
Breast yearnings, m3'^stic greed, the love of love — 
The cry of life, now echoed from the vast. 

"If it could be." The memory of years 
Dims all but hope . . . regret and sudden hope. 
If it could be. "Stretch forth thy hands and greet 
The resurrection and the life. The miracle. 
The miracle? Life stands between and fate." 
Ah, life and fate, grim spectres — spectral strong. 

Reasons and laws. "My duty. Ah, my love, 
It might have been. I cannot turn and greet." 
Dry years of stifling desert-life, and then — 
The fear the sparkling spring a poison holds — 
Pass on, and do not drink. Thirst in thy fear. 

"My life! Too late!" But in her soul, 

As she had known before in yearning dread 

The springing of a child-life in her womb, 

A love-birth was conceived . . . No \\'ord was 

spoke. 
She looked into his eyes. Pie looked at her. 
"If it could be! Too late! life stands between. 
Soul-kin, I yearn. Stretch forth thy hands and 

greet." 

32 



THE SEA SONG 

. . . Ah, the call, 

The luring call. 

The call of the endless sea! 

I 
From whence he came, or why, 
No one could well explain 
To the youth who awoke with a startled cry. 
And found himself on the broad highway 
That leads to the endless sea. 

There is beauty in the way 
When the heart sings with the birds. 
When the blood mounts like the sap 
In the spring-kissed maple trees. 
There is glory in the life 
When we struggle in the steep 
Just to see the view bej^ond ; 
When the rocks pierce not the feet, 

And clear eyes can meet the sun. 

Yes, the song of youth is a merry strain, 

From the lips of life that no fetter knows; 

And the lilt of joy is the prescience 

Of the silent peace which the sea will bring. 

Hot is the sun, and the hills are steep; 

Cold and dreary the long black nights; 

Fierce runs the blood, and the hot heart yearns 

For a mate to clasp in the empty arms ; 

And a chill refrain from the future brings 

Forebodings of evil — the chant of pain. 

Upward ! press upward ! 
The road is not so steep. 
Thy hand of love 
Clasps my loving hand. 

33 



Thy tired head rests 

On the breast of love. 

Beyond yon peak 

Lies the fruitful plain 

Where we will rest, 

And sing again 

The joyous song of the sea. 

Mist-veils of purple dim the ruddy gold. 
Across the barren plain a brilliant path, 
Delusive as a dream of perfect bliss, 
Leads to the lands that never did exist. 

Tantalus-bound with secrets unconfessed. 
The burdened bosom of the writhing sea 
Shivers and moans a sobbing threnody, 
Repulsively alluring, Kundry-like, unblessed. 
From out the vastness one pale phantom craft. 
Bearing no pennant on its pointing mast, 
Steers for the shore — as silent as a kiss 
From the cold lips of love, when love is past. 

No hand guides the wheel, 
For no port lies be3^ond ; 
And grim smiles curl the lips 
Of the pale-visaged crew; 
For their bark ne'er returns 
From its journey of rest 
O'er the vast, sobbing sea; 
And the crew is content 
With the dull threnody 
That so suddenly lulls 
When the voyage begins. 

Yes, the song of youth is a merry strain, 
And the lilt of love is a stirring lure; 
But the sea's low call is the song of rest, 
And the rest thereof is the mystery. 

34 



A CRY IN THE NIGHT 

The mystical silence of darkness, 

Then softly against the windows 

The touch of the light rain-fingers. 

Hark! 

What message 

Brings the lawless night wind? 

Woe! Woe! Woe! 

The mea culpa of regretful nature, 

Who cannot rest more than the avalanche. 

A grain of sand — 

A mighty rush of worlds. 

Twelve ! 

A solemn warning of deathless time. 

Stainless a day is born. 

No, before the word is said, 

The day is soiled. 

Life does not rest — 

No more does death — 

Nor pain, nor joy, nor crime, 

And love and hate reign on. 

Until the nothingness of chaos comes, 

Each day will be the same. 

What a treadmill! 

What a comedy! 

Laugh ! 

Tears ? 

In all the cycles of forgotten time 

Enough have not been shed 

To cleanse the life-stains from a single soul. 

Laugh until the sobs come 

And the heart aches. 

Laugh and wait. 

Only children weep 

Because the white moon-toy 

35 



Hangs far beyond their grasp. 
Hope is a potent charm, 
And if to-morrow never comes 
To-day will still be here. 

Tears ! 

Silently they fall and caress my cheeks. 

Now one has brushed across 

My pain-drawn lips — 

A dead-sea kiss 

From the sullen phantom 

Of the great world-grief. 

. . . What half-forgotten song 

Steals like a sad child-wraith 

From some dim, ashen-misted recess of my brain ? 

"Rags for the princesses. 

Satin for the beggar maids; 

Sorrow for the laughing ones^ 

And love-life for the dead. 

. . . The first shall be last, 

And no sparrow shall fall." 

Such paradoxes as these 

Only the young can sing — 

Early, before the rosy mask 

Is torn from the face of truth. 

Hark! 

Some one sobs and stifles cries of pain. 
Sob-notes can be read 
As black music notes — 
But one must listen closely. 

. These are a woman's cries. 
Here suffering blends with love — 
The rust in the w^hite rose-heart. 
. . . Now they become 
A protest against sex — 
Her wail of weak defiance to mighty nature. 
Such suffering is her love-heritage. 

36 



Such pain she has known before 

And will know again. 

There is no impunity for women. 

Again the silence. 

Has death released her? 

He is always lurking as life is lurking; 

For life and death 

Dance hand in hand on the treadmill. 

What a cry! 

Like a slender knife 

It cuts through the darkness. 

Make room! Make room! 

Another stands on the treadmill. 

Only a lung cry — 

Soulless, unhuman. 

When does the soul slip in — 

With the first breath? 

Or slowly, slowly, 

Like a seed In the earth 

That upward strives for reproduction? 

Now Is It only flesh . . . her flesh 

And bone . . . her bone . . . 

That she has suffered for? 

Is It a simple germ 

Which circumstance will mould 

And lead to germ again — 

To the end where we all begin? 

Ah, what a treadmill! 
What a comedy! 
Laugh ! 



37 



IMPRESSIONS 

I. IsHght 

Broad, wavering spots of lemon-yellow glow; 
Shadows so dark no eye can pierce them through; 
Masses of green that blend In heaven's blue ; 
Scents of the dogwood, violet and earth. 

Far in the distant mist 
Rises a fairy shaft — 
White as a glowing pearl. 
Blue where the shadows He, 
Wedded to earth and sky . . . 
Night is for those who drea?n. 

Clear from a dusky throat 
Comes a soft melody, 
Tinkle of mandolin 
Breaking the calm of night. 
Spectres glide swiftly by — 
Noiseless, on flecks of steel; 
Glinting, then gone again 
Into the darkness . . . 
Night is for pleasure. 

Clasped In a close embrace. 
Whispering words of love, 
Lips pressed to answering lips. 
Passionate eyes cast down — 
All else, save one forgot . . . 
Night is for those who love. 

Reeling with mirthless smile, 
Eyes searching wantonly. 
Full lips alluringly 
Tempting to sensuous joys — 
Pleasures voluptuous . . . 
Night is for passion. 

38 



Huddled in filthy rags 
Where the black shadows lie — 
Lustreless eyes that stare 
Into dumb vacancy, 
Cheeks that are seamed and pale, 
Lips between toothless gums — 
Mumbling a curse or praj'er . 
Ah, blessed darkness ! 



IL The Duel 

Night — 

A death-cloth 

Heavy in black cloud-folds. 

Silence of expectant fear 

Like a choked storm-hush. 

The clash of steel 
Stabbing the stillness 
As lightning spears 
Rend dun wind-banners. 

A cry — 

Sharp as a dagger thrust. 
A dull moan. 
A woman's name 
Breathed like a kiss — 
Long, passionate. 
Then — 

A soul slips 

Into the unknown chaos. 
The living retreats 
Crushed with his victory. 
A hound howls a requiem 
To a moon that grins 
Like a sardonic sphinx. 

39 



III. The Wreck 

A vessel struggles 
With tempestuous waves. 
Eddying, whirling monsters. 
Tendrils that weave 
Like strong octopus arms 
Or giant bloodless hands 
Reaching to drag 
Souls to a pit — 
Noisome, vast, unknown. 

A priest 

With mad, ecstatic eyes 

Stands upon the shore. 

Like sand in water 

It crumbles. 

He does not move; 

He prays unceasingly 

To a dead God. 

Upon their knees 

Conscious of coming evil, 

His frightened followers 

Chant hymns — 

Ancient litanies 

Whose meaning has been forgotten. 

A censor sways 

Amorous, 

Intoxicating, 

And over all 

A shadow falls — 

Cross-formed, black — 

Pall-black 

Like dread death. 

A woman leaps 
Towards the sinking ship. 

40 



Love is in her heart — 
Love like a rare jewel. 

Another, pale with fear, 

Trembling and wild-e3^ed. 

Tortured with vain regret, 

Rises and curses the shadow 

Cross- formed, black — 

Pall-black 

Like dread death. 

The prayers cease. 
The vessel is forgotten. 
At the women 
Stones are hurled. 



IV. A Vision of Love 

Deep in a forest glade 

I saw the first fair mistress of the world. 

Brown-limbed and lithe, 

She danced like a flame of glory 

Upon the scarlet beauty of the fallen leaves. 

Rich berry-crimson were her cheeks and lips. 

Stained hot with amorous sun-wine. 

The golden splendor of her flowing tresses 

Half-veiled the naked wonder of her breasts. 

A rhythmic melody 

Fell like bells of crystal from her lips, 

And hidden dryads 

Fluted the song in triumph, 

Until the wn'nd 

Carried the lure 

To all the whirling spheres. 

Pan's supreme mistress — 

He who drinks the magic of thy breasts 

Learns all life-wisdom. 

41 



In the sweet nectar of thy kiss 

A white fire burns. 

Thy siren song 

Rings like a joyous echo in my soul, 

And in my heart 

I deck a shrine with wondrous lotus bloom. 



V. Primeval Motherhood 

Crouched in the darkest nook 
Of the tangled jungle's depth, 
A female monster lies, 
Writhing in unnamed pain. 
Over her aching womb 
She presses her hairy hands; 
While from her tuneless throat 
Issue discordant cries. 
All the hills echo with pain 
As loudly she calls to her mate — 
Led by the heat of the chase, 
He has forgotten her. 

Out of the jungle's depth, 
Out where the sunlight glares, 
Trembling with sullen fear. 
Swooning, she falls alone. 

Hushed is the breath of the wind; 
Silent the whispering leaves; 
Calm through the mists of the night 
Sails the brazen-disked moon. 

Sharply a shrill treble cry. 
Then a low answering croon — 
Tender and soft to assure. 
Gentle, to soothe and caress. 

42 



Pressed in long, muscular arms, 
Close to her newl)^ filled breasts, 
Suckling in silent content, 
Nestles the young first born. 
Deep in her wondering ej^es 
Trembles the mother-love light; 
Proudly she goes to find 
The father, her master and mate. 

VI. The Dirge 

Down sweeps the fog, 
And like a monk's gray cowl 
Enwraps in cold embrace 
The night's hot heart. 

The street lamps gleam 
Like misty, drunken eyes 
All red with maudlin tears. 

Upon the sodden hills 
The moaning pines, 
Swept by the wailing winds. 
Repeat an ever-wearied song 
Of dull despair. 

This holy night 
All nature dumbly mourns 
The absence of her gods — 
Dryads and nymphs, 
Satyrs and fairy elves. 
Aye and the w^andering. 
Ever amorous fauns. 



43 



VII. A Mood Picture 

Gray blue skies 

Melt into softest rose, 

And one huge cloud, 

Vulture-winged and black, 

Arises from the sea. 

To the West the low hills lie 

Half swathed in gauzy mist, 

And the golden-green reeds 

Bend narcissus-like 

Over the river's edge. 

My friend, the stalwart tree. 

Now wrapped in a scarlet cloak 

Of wildly fluttering rags, 

Waves his far-reaching arms 

To the woeful wail of the wind. 

Whirling, a flock of doves 

Wreathe in amorous play; 

And like snow-flake prophecies 

The silk-weed gallions drift. 

Through a jagged gash in the sky 

Cut by the sunset's sword, 

A crimson light streams down 

And floods the day with blood. 

Muflled and dull 

Comes the city's roar, 

The groaning roar 

Of the grinding mill. 

Into whose hopper 

Grime-stained with age, 

The human grain is poured. 



44 



VIII. The Image 

Who has fashioned this ivory toy? 

Is it a devil, a faun, or man? 

Lithe white limbs, graceful and strong, 

Face that is neither old nor young. 

Eyes that are veiled with gossamer gray — 

What lies beyond? Ah, who can say . . . 

Mystic and dark, like a half-closed room, 

With one ray of sunlight, golden and warm. 

Shining across a silk-strewn floor 

Perfumed heavy with scents of love — 

Faded blossoms of garnered desires. 

But one that is sturdy, that puts forth bloom, 

And for this is the sunlight, golden and warm. 



IX. Impression 

Wan as a flower frail, 

That too long had lain 

In the ravishing sun. 

Lips with the scarlet of woodbine bells. 

Hot as a flame, dry with desire. 

Passionate beat of a yearning heart 

Aching with love, longing with pain — 

Sweet Tantalus-greed, like a stifling hand 

That is pressed o'er the lips 

When a cry is hushed. 

Rebellious eyes like a smouldering fire — 
Ardent with light, or like ashes dull; 
IVves that devour like a fire uncurbed. 
Caressing, repulsing, lashing and calm. 
Pulses that throb when the blood mounts hot. 
Or as feebly beat when remorse returns — 
Remorse like the North-wind 
AVith low, icy wail. 



45 



SUGGESTIONS 

I. Nocturne — Opus 54 Nr. 4, Grieg. 

The yellow moon behind a cloud is hid. 
Traces of radiance like a fading smile 
Stain gold the trembling branches of a tree 
Where blossoms glow like crimson, wanton lips. 
Down at my feet like tiny virgin souls, 
Seeking the joys of love which eager death, 
Like a marauding thief snatched from their grasp, 
Scents of the violets rise like half-heard songs. 
Whispering wind-notes sigh through waving leaves. 
Murmur of water rippling through the reeds. 
Gold-hearted lilies eager but to yield — 
Longingly waiting till the sun has come. 
Call of the night-bird to its hiding mate — 
Shyly — as one who longs, but has not won. 

IL Prelude in E-Minor. Chopin. 

Form of woman, divine, divine. 

(Oh, heart, longing heart 

Never to know thy rest.) 
Seeking, seeking ever to hide 
The worm that gnaws in thy breast. 
Cold, snow-cold to the hands of him. 
Dead, dead sense to the love of him, 
Lips like a poppy-bud never to bloom — 
Never to open beneath the sun. 

(Ah, me, for a life, a life. 

Free, free and unconfined. 

To love and wanton where'er I list 

Like the wind, the wandering wind.) 



46 



III. Song. Opus II, Nr. 3. A. von Ende. 

Sobbing winds through long drenched grasses, 

(Love, oh love, I am here) 
Wailing winds through the naked trees 

(And where art thou, my love?) 
Wrapped in a garment of swirling mist, 
Gray, so gray; like a witch-queen's cloak, 
Eyes, deep eyes of a longing love, 
Hot, hot lips like a line of flame. 
Searching, searching and doomed to search, 
Blown like the shadows of wind-tossed firs 

(Love, oh love, I wuU wait.) 

IV. Eros. Opus 44, Nr. 6. Jensen. 
. . . "Yea, now I know Eros! 
A terrible god! 
He sucked at the breasts of a lioness." 

— Theocritus. 

What is the song of the wandering wind ? 
A song that rises and ebbs away, 
A weird and wonderful melody, 
With silken threads of a scarlet hue, 
And flashing jewels of rainbow light. 
Gem-encrusted, and shot with gold. 

{"IVe are the beautiful sins of sin. 
Open your heart to us. Let us in. 
Life is sweet and love is long; 
We will make of your life a radiant song. 
See, we are beautiful sins.") 

The skies are clear and the yellow moon 
Hangs like a topaz on dusky steel. 
Flashing star-beacons beam and wink. 
And one red love-star seems to sink 



47 



With a rush of passion down to earth, 

To a trysting grove, where night-birds woo. 

{''One is searching for you, for you; 
The fairest one of the seven fair; 

With eyes that burn like a sweet, sweet wine, 
PFith lips that caress, and never grow tired. 
Co?ne to us, we are sins/') 

The voice that I hear is plaintive and low, 
Like far-off waves of a monody. 
Words with the scent of a half-blown rose;- 
Soft as the brush of a moon-moth's wing. 
Siren calls from a thrush-lute throat, 
Pleading, pleading for me to come. 

{''Why, why stay when I wait for thee? 
Here is no morrow, no vain regret. 
My joys of sin are the joys of love. 
Forget in me, ah, forget.") 

Seven dance on the velvet green, 
Crushing the fragrance from violets. 
Opal robes from the moon-veil mist; 
Eyes that draw like a will-o'-w^isp ; 
Flesh that glows like a pinkish pearl; 
Lips that are formed to kiss and kiss. 

{"Come to me, I am sin/') 

One steps forward with arms to greet, — 
White and naked, and unashamed. 
Full white breast, like a buo5^ant sail ; 
Back that curves wath a lissome grace ; 
Limbs that are warm and soft and strong, — 
Ah, life is sweet, and love is long. 
Who gave thee the name of sin? 



48 



REQUIEM 

To a youth who dreamed, 
Life came one day of stress, 
And with a heavy hand 
Shook the young soul awake. 

''Arise!" Life said, 
"Thou foolish one, arise; 
Thou liest in the path of men. 
Come, follow me, thou sluggard. 
For I have work for thee. 
Until a stronger master calls 
Thou shalt obey my will. 
My serf thou art — 
And golden chains I promise thee 
If thou dost serve me well." 

Then Death stepped forth, 
And kissed the youth 
With gentle mother-lips. 

"My child," Death said, 
"When weary thou hast grown 
Of life's bequests, 
Then I will come. 
I promise thee no joy; 
For I can only give 
What life does not possess — 
The silent, peaceful rest." 



49 



A MOOD PAGEANT 

Polonius. — What do you read, my lord? 
Hamlet. — Words, words, words. 

— Shakespeare. 
The pageant is eternally passing, 
With joy-music, ivailing and laughter. 
Cries of heart-break and pain-sobs. 
Close the curtains. 
Shut your eyes. 

Put your hands over your ears, — 
Nothing avails. 
You will always hear it. 
Until one day you join the sombre cortege. 
Then others will listen. 



THE SYMBOL 

I waited once for a sign: 

I laugh to think of it, for I was very young. 

Silently, steadily upward I looked, — 

Eagerly, patiently upward. 

Oh, if the heavens would open, 

Just for the length of a breath ! 

Silence, watching silence, — 

The yearning of soul in prayer, 

Then, clutching, childish fear, 

A cold touch upon my bare foot, — 

A serpent was crawling over me. 



A HERO FOR WORSHIP 

Each day 

Forces him back to a black chasm, 

Where he must leap or fall, — 

Down ! Down ! Down ! 

To where grim spectres 

Writhe in the chilling mists. 

Bent are his shoulders 

With the weight of a heavy burden. 

Long, long ago, 

He renounced the sunlight and feasting. 

It would be restful to fall, — 

Down, down to the chasm's depth. 

But the burden, — 

Ah, yes, the burden ! 

It is for that he must leap. 



53 



THREE TRAGEDIES IN LITTLE 



Heart, heart, why singest thou? 

{Today dead flowers bloom.) 
Heart, heart, why weepest thou? 

{White, white roses fade.) 
Heart, heart, why singest thou ? 

{Over the hills she comes.) 
Heart, heart, why weepest thou? 

{Cold, cold was her kiss.) 



TIRED 

II 

What a beautiful word ! 

How I long to speak it! 

To say it with my heart and brain, 

With slowly sinking blood ! 

Tired, so tired ! 

Then rest comes. 

But the crumbled rose leaf ? 



POWERLESS 

III 

What the heart longs for 
Is ever denied us. 
In fetters we walk 
Like bond-slaves bound. 
The burden of hearts 
Is a mighty one, 
Though thy heart I have, 
And my heart hast thou. 

54 



SEER— PAIN 

Now I shall write — 
Ah, something so beautiful! 
Yes, like a balm it shall be. 
Soothing to wounded hearts. 
Restful to weary brains. 
The prophet's covenant 
To his faithful followers. 

Beautiful, beautiful life. 
And joyous, joyous love. 
From the cradle to the grave . 

Grave ! 

Worms. 

Earth to earth. 

Let go of my hand, you devil! 



REINTEGRATION 



I throw up my arms and laugh. 
The pagans were wise, — 
They knew whence comes the earth- joy 
The fetters of creed fall from me. 

The sun! 

Upon the earth I lie, 

The floor of thy great temple, 

And sink, sink to rest. 

God! Golden god of might, 

Kiss my weary eyes ! 



55 



PROGRESS 

We are always the same, 

Years are nothing, 

Centuries are nothing. 

Cycles are of no avail. 

We still crucify and use tortures. 

Often the Juggernaut 

Crushes a throbbing heart 

And we laugh to see the blood spurt. 



A LIFE PRECEPT 

He showed me his scars 
And smiled in Spartan pride. 

"See," he said: 
"I keep my treasures hid. 
You are the only one who knows." 
Upon his breast was an open heart-wound. 

"Touch it." 
I laid my fingers there, softly, so softly, like a kiss. 
The blood gushed forth, and he marked my brow 
with it. 

Four red drops. 

From a wound which love has made. 

Four red drops. 

Like a martyr's cross sublime. 

Four red drops. 

From the wound whence life-lore springs. 

Four red drops. 

Friend, thou art now my brother. 

Such wounds and scars only those who live with 

love may know : 
For without the wisdom of pain. 
We could hear no calls from the darkness. 

56 



MISER-TREASURE 

What could I not do with it? 

I hold it poised, ever poised, — 

One tiny black ink drop. 

Then I laugh. 

No, it is enough to be served at a ghoul's banquet, 

Without furnishing the sauce tartare. 



LETHE 

Again I have reached the wall. 

Again I have walked in a circle. 

There is music on the other side, 

And joy reigns like a beautiful queen. 

Once I had climbed to the top, — 
Just far enough to see the dancing. 
I was about to leap, 
But he dragged me back. 

"Stop," he cried, 
''You have forgotten!" 

"No, no," I said. 

"Over there the lotus blooms. 

And they drink from the lethe cup." 

He kissed my brow with tender pity. 
"Friend, they dance 
Because they seek to remember. 
Come, we shall walk the circle again." 

. . . He is dancing there now. 
And I am lonely and footsore, — 
But I still long to forget. 



57 



A TRINITY 

I fill three glasses, 

For there are three of us here at the table. 

The one at my right Is tall and seraph-formed : 

He has a wistful mouth, like a dew-thirsty rose. 

And eyes w^ith dull tear traces. 

Pale? Yes, he is always pale. 

Suffering, you know, — 

Ah, well, you may not know. 

At my left the other sits, 
And gobbles everything. 
That is what makes him so strong. 



HELL 

He has locked the door, 
Aye and driven nails there. 
What a fearful grin a skull has, 
And those strong hands. 
Long, eager, clutching. 

Sometimes he forgets them, — 
When music is played. 
Or we He In the sunshine. 
Then he starts suddenly. 
Cold drops come upon his brow. 
"God, what if it has escaped!" 



58 



POPPY BLOOD 

For two long, weary nights. 

Pain, like a hungry rat, 

Has gnawed his breast ; 

But now he sleeps 

Like a child too young for dreams. 

Gently, gently, the old clock 

Ticks a cradle song of time's monotony. 

Lazily, lazily, the wind coquettes 

With the flaming bells of the window vine. 

In the sun-bathed garden 

Two golden-belted bees 

Drink sleep from the satin poppy-cups. 

. . . How many scarlet fields 
In far off India, 
Yielded their amber blood 
To give him this short rest? 
Glorious Nature! 
Even in thy curse thou art kind. 
For thou alone canst stifle in its lair 
The hungry rat-pain. 



GHOUL-FEASTING 

"Have you read them?" 
She handed me the volume. 
"The letters of A—. 
Edited by his friend. 
And such a disclosure! 
I enjoyed them." 

Tears came into my eyes. 

That night I burned my treasure-coffer. 



59 



MEMORIES 

I 

Some words are never forgotten. 

They even creep between the lines of love songs. 

They are like ghost hands 

Laid upon hot lips. 

Such words I heard 

When I stood beside the black death-pit. 

Those persevering vultures 

Are eternally hovering. 

II 

Here they are. 

A portrait — 

I will not look at it. 

Ah, how beautiful! 

Three letters of love, 

Tied with a strand 

Of long brown hair. 

Sometimes it is a panacea 

To gloat over the bloodstains 

Upon the weapons that strike you. 



THE OLD MYTH. OLD? 

It was so beautiful, 

Round and scarlet and white, 

With fragrance of hyacinth. 

For a long time I was content to gaze. 

Then I grew hungry, 

But I could not bear to mar my treasure. 

I bit with eager haste. 

Dear Lord, the bitterness of those ashes! 

60 



TO HIM 

It is restful here. 
High, sculptured arches, 
Shadows of dim amber. 
Mystic song echoes 
Like waves that beat 
Upon jagged rocks 
Where mermaids weep. 

Star flames of faint glow 

Shine about the mother's face, 

And one slant of sun-gold 

Falls upon the cruel thorn-crow^n, 

. . . Nay, brother, 

My own burden will I bear. 

From the travail of the w^orld 

Thou shalt be spared my sorrow. 



THE MASQUE 

Yes, here is purity. 

Surely the noble soul 

Who saw^ this Galahad, 

So spirit-white and fair, 

Glowing with altar fire. 

Has reached beyond the stars, 

Heard the mystic harmonies 

That sound through virgin spheres. 

Wait! a fleeting glimpse 
Of the master's soul we see, 
For beneath the shrouding cowl, 
Close-hooded in chastity. 
Peer narrow, faunish eyes, 
Hungry, cruel and keen. 
Leering, and shot with lust. 

6i 



THE PRODIGAL 

She often feels her burden, — 

Days when she is weary, 

When her feet drag like tired dogs. 

It is so horrible 

Always to carry a corpse. 

But so long has she held it to her breast 

That without it she could not laugh. 



A MYSTERY 

It was only a jest, 

But you killed her with it. 

If you had used a knife 

You would have been more merciful. 

To her child-dreaming eyes 

The brazen vase was gold, 

And the muddy brew it held, 

A pure love potion. 

She weeps in hell. 

The world-wise sneer at her. 

You smile, and undisturbed. 

Brew other death-draughts. 



THE FREEDOM-PHILTRE 

What does it matter — 

A day or two more or less? 

I shall keep it with me. 

It will be easy to escape 

When the wolves snap at my heels. 

They always breathe in the distance. 

Someday they w^ill overtake me. 



62 



THE GOLDEN CALF 

I was there. 

They led her in to him. 

He thrust a knife into her breast. 

We all laughed, and merrily drank to love. 

But she . . . 

In her girlish heart, 

Lay a life-hope, ashen cold. 

It was a human sacrifice, 

But we called it by another name. 

THE VANGUARD 

"What can he be? 

Do not listen to him ! 

Never read such things, 

They are not beautiful. 

In early days 

Men have been hanged for less." 

Ah, foolish, foolish! 

The fire upon the altar 

Can never be extinguished. 

There is always fresh heart's blood 

To keep the flame alight. 

THE END OF HIS COMEDY 

Madder! Faster! 
Clink the glasses. 
Louder music play. 
All join in the chorus : 
''Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" 

If the heavens were to open 
I should still hear that faint cry. 
No louder than a bird's call : 
"Good-bye, good-bye!" 
How a woman's voice penetrates! 

63 



TROUBADOUR SONGS: MODERN 
I. TO CHRYSTOBEL 

Between the pages of a well-thumbed volume, 

Amid songs that sound so prettily nnpotent, — 

Even as a eunuch might sing 

Of passionate love- joys, — 

I find your portrait. 

Upon the back is written : 

"Forever thine." 

And the heart-name I called you — 

"Chrystobel." 

In those days your sensuous red lips, 
Scented with Peau d'Espagne, 
Were my Love-god's altar. 
Your shadowy gray eyes 
Seemed soul-hungry traps, 
But now I remember 
That just a trifle of bistre 
Heightened their charm. 

Dear lady, 

You were my youthful love-queen. 

If you had bade me leap, 

No pit would have been too deep. 

But you were kind 

And I live to say : 

"God-'a-mercy, how old we are growing!" 

II 

Merrily, like children, 

We stripped the thorns 

From the stems of heart-red roses. 

Of the fragrant petals. 

We spread our couch. 

What bliss ! 

Yes, now we are happy. 

64 



The fire-flies lit up our faces. 
The thorns were in our tired eyes. 

Ill 

"Sing me something." 

She flashed a glance of coquetry. 

**A love song?" 

She touched the harp strings. 

"Forever and aye!" 

"I thank you, 

Now play me a dirge. 

A jest is often depressing." 



IV. MOON-MAD 

What a brilliant moon 

Hung over the sea 

That long remembered night! 

Never before had I known 

Its dazzling splendor. 

I said: 

"It is like your soul, 

So virginal, so cold." 

You were pleased with my fancy 

And leaned a little closer. 

There was an elusive odor 

Of night-kissed violets 

In the calm air. 

"It is like your love" — I thought 

"So subtle, so suggestive/* 

And, truthful child that I was, 

I told you. 

In sudden rapture, 

You threw your arms about me, 

And I felt your bosom heave. 

Then the forgotten tide 

65 



Swept in upon us, 
And our ardent love 
Became as cold as our feet. 

A PARABLE 

Once, when he was younger. 

He climbed to a free height. 

He could see, — 

Oh, so very far, — 

For he stood above the age-hollowed cloud veils, 

And all that lay before his eyes 

Was fair as a childhood dream, primeval, pure. 

Brave was his heart, and blithe. 

Unfettered by solitude. 

So a joyous song he sang, 

And he lit a crystal lamp 

Which he held up like a star. 

He was eager to share his joy 

With those on the crowded plain, 

He wanted others to climb 

To the heights where the heart beats free, 

Where no shadows fright the soul. 

And no cloud veils dim the eyes. 

Fierce were the cries they raised 
When they saw him stand so brave, 
And hungry the fingers that dug 
At the rocks beneath his feet. 
Mocking, malevolent jeers 
Echoed his joyous songs: 

"Such vanity! 
Fool! He breaks a decree. 
Blind idiot. Cast him down!" 

Yes, it is a mystic dark 
Here in the wraith-bound pit, 

66 



For the crystal lamp burns dim, 
And the stars blink cold and drear. 
Always he hears faint cries, 
Longing and memory. 

We all cry so in the dark, 
When we tliink of the free, brave height. 

THE GUIDE 

Slowly and painfully 

They have climbed the rugged steep, 

And now before their tired feet 

Yawns a chasm of black depth. 

Where grinning skulls lie heaped 

In one high, ever-reaching monument. 

Despairing and weary. 

The guide, — 

Soul-sick with fear, 

And dizzy with the height, — 

Sinks upon the cold rock pinnacle. 

Eagerly the Blind 

Stretches forth his hands. 

"You pause," he cries. 

"Ah, now we have reached the top 

Here on the highest peak 

The curtain will be rent. 

And Truth, like a radiant god, 

Will take us by the hand. 

Where are you, brother? — 

Can you grasp the stars? 

Oh, lift me up to them ! 

Rend this black veil 

Before my age-dimmed eyes, 

And let me see. 

Speak, brother." 

"There is nothing but a pit. 
The stars are still above us, 

67 



Far, far above, 

Cold, cold and dim as before." 

''Call, brother, 

Call to the mighty one 

For whom we search!" 

"No one will hear us, — for we are alone. 
. . . Listen. The jeering echoes 
Repeat my cries." 

"Look for the path, brother. 
Your clear and searching eyes 
Can see the way." 

"There is no way. 
We have reached the topmost peak, 
And no path lies beyond, — 
Only a chasm, deep and black." 

"Then I will lead. 
Here you must trust to me. 
My faith will bring 
What your eyes cannot see. 

Give me your hand . . . 
It trembles, brother. 
Come, we must go onward. 
Fear not . . . 
Now one brave step, and — " 

In the depth 

Bleached, grinning skulls lie heaped 

In one high, ever-reaching monument. 

Far, far above the lonely, silent topmost pinnacle. 

The cold stars blink, — 

Pale, cold and pale as before. 



68 



THE BEACON STAR 

Slowly my black shadow 
Flits through the dim streets, 
And alvva}'s before my shadow 
Is a restless, twitching star, — 
Beckoning, beckoning. 

Other shadows flit by. 

For the same star beckons to all, 

And none of the shadows know the way, 

And none will reach the star. 

But on, and on, and on, 
The flitting shadows go, 
Restless if the twitching lure 
Is not before their e)TS. 

And each of the shadows wonders 
Why the others hurry so, 
And each of the shadows smiles 
At the star the others see. 

Yet the same star beckons to all, 
A restless, twitching lure 
Which no shadow will ever reach. 
My shadow knows, and it laughs, 
Yet on and on it goes, 
For the beacon beckons far. 
And weary and sad I grow 
If the lure is not before me. 



69 



DREAMS 

Today I saw him again, 
The weazened old man 
Who sits in the sunlit road 
And scratches w^ith keen fingers 
Into the dry, brown sand. 

Timidly I approached him, 
For he looked wisely quaint, 
With time-rimed beard, 
And lines of long-lived life 
Grim-cut across his brow. 

''Why do you dig?" I asked, 

'Tor some lost treasure?" 

And I smiled 

To see his fingers clutch so eagerly 

Into the barren sand. 

A shrewdly childish grin 
Tightened his age-kissed lips. 

"Look, — see!" he cried, 
And pointed to a heap of shining pebbles. 
With miser love he clutched them to his breast 
"My jewels, — mine, — all mine!" 
And tears of greed 
Oozed from his shallow eyes. 

Then to the sand he knelt again. 

"Much gold lies here, deep down, — 

But I must work 

If I can hope to find it, 

For I shall soon be old." 



70 



THE GOD-DESIRE 

Today, as in a dream, 

He unrolled to my startled eyes 

The panorama of earth's god-desire. 

Far, ages far, he led me back. 

To where, in Time's dim cavern. 

There sat in fearful majesty, 

The first grim master of men's souls. 

Stern brows he had. 

And hard, unpitying eyes 

That looked, with unmoved calm 

On prostrate faith or bloody sacrifice. 

A kingly god. 

More powerful than kings, — 

The weak could cry to him 

For aid and vengeance. 

Forth from this fetish shrine 

A road led on and on, 

Trod level by the march of centuries. 

Until it reached the sunlight of today. 

This way and that it wound. 

Through hill and plain, — 

Where all the echoes ring with clash of war: 

Hi rough arid wastes. 

Where no fair flowers bloom: 

Through dismal swamps 

Where mystic fog-wraiths fright : 

Dark forest glades 

Where no bird carols sound : 

And canons rough 

Where jagged rocks 

Still weep with scarlet tears. 

Of those who fell with trusting smiles of faith, 

In the aid and vengeance 

Of the kingly god, — 

More powerful than kings. 

. . . At last I stood 



71 



Before the shrine that I had built 

As temple for my god. 

And lo! 

His brows were stern, 

His eyes were hard, 

No pity beamed from them, 

But unmoved calm 

That looked alike on faith or sacrifice. 

I laughed in pain 

To see how like the first 

I had conceived him: — 

This kingly god. 

More powerful than kings. 

To whom I looked for aid 

And asked for vengeance. 

Defiant, proud, 

I struck my idol's face, 

Then paused in fear, 

If he should fall — what then? 

A wrong must bring a hope. 

. . . Some day . . . 

Perhaps some day . 

But we must all be kings, 

And there must be no vengeance. 



WHY? 

Do not ask it. 

Never seek to know. 

Forget this word, 

And let us only kiss and love. 

No scalpel knife of thought 

New beauty could reveal, 

In those frail golden dreams 

That blossom in our hearts. 



72 



THE GREAT BROTHERHOOD 

*'Yes, it is love. 

Love Is the great keystone 

That knits the arch of life." 

. . . So spoke a poet-soul 

In earnest fervor of his youthful heart, 

To a friend of worldy wisdom. 

*'A11 nature rests on love. 
Life springs from love. 

The first dust-atom, in the first great silence, 
Yearned for a mate 

To share its lonely majesty of mighty space, 
Cleft its own heart in tw^ain, 
And thus the soul was born. 
We are all souls, and souls are things. 
Each atom has its place 
In the universal whole. 
There are no mysteries, 
I am all life, I share all life. 
To all who live, I say — 
Thou art my brother." 

Then spoke tlie soul of worldly wisdom : 

. . . "Idealist, 

Thy dream is golden. 

Pure and primeval. 

Beautiful as a hope of perfect beauty. 

Ever old as thy first-born atom. 

New as thy last heart-beat. 

Thou shalt say brother to all men. Come." 

Into the town they went, 
Where life 

Pours like a brawling stream 
Through narrow, stone-cut \\alls. 
Here many souls thej^ met. 
The proudly virtuous, 

73 



Those of the church, the state, 

The knave and thief, 

Those bland with wealth, 

Or with the hunted fear of wolfish poverty, 

And to each soul 

The poet-soul held out his hand. 

''Brother!" he said in greeting. 

Some laughed in scorn, 

Or smiled in friendly pity, 

And some there were 

Who frowned in haughty silence, 

Some blushed in shame, 

And could not meet the honest dreamer's eyes. 

While others fled in fear as from a madman. 

But none responded to the brother-call of love. 

Then passed a youth 

With eyes of innocence. 

Smiling w^ithout mirth. 

Weeping without sorrow, 

He prattled like a child. 

Stray phrases, half remembered dreams. 

He saw the tears of pain 

In the poet-dreamer's eyes. 

And reached to him his hand 

With gentle sympathy. 

"They call me nature's fool," he said, 

"When I shed tears. 

Why do you weep, brother?" 



74 



OMNIPOTENCE 

Once I called myself a god, — 

The day I stood above the lowly ant-hill, 

And watched my busy world 

With keenly critical eyes. 

Red rose leaves, laden with sweets, 

I showered down upon them. 

As I watched them toil and fret. 

Laying up their vast wealth-burdens. 

How like a world it was, 

For there before my eyes. 

They loved and hated, 

Bred anew and died. 

I could not understano 

Their eager hurrying after nothing. 

Nor did they notice me. 

More forest fruits I brought them, 

Great booty, living prey, 

Till they were surfeited with luxury, 

But no regard had they for me, their god. 

Then tired and angry, 

I upheaved my world, 

Scattered it far and wide. 

Looted the treasure coffers. 

Frowned, and visited my wrath upon them. 

Then how^ they fought, and fled, and died ! 

How Impotent their frenzied agony 

Against my ruthless will. 

But now they understood. 

That above their tiny choice 

A higher power ruled. 

And I?— 

I was their god, 

And I was satisfied. 



75 



THE CRUCIFIED ONE 

Thou, feminine of soul, 
Man at whose nail-pierced feet, 
Stained red with martyrs' blood, 
The world still kneels 
Begging in vain relief, 
Thou hast my pity. 

To thy cold shrine. 
Impotent, dreamlike, fire quenched. 
Beseeching arms are stretched 
In fear of Thee. 

Dreaming prophets of old. 
Fighting against desire. 
Cast o'er Thy birth a veil, 
Somiber, perverse, obscure. 
Hiding with mystical shame 
A joy of our joyless lives. 

Helpless, fatherless one. 

They made of our birth a stain. 

Deserted, suffering one. 

As brother Thou hast my love. 

Sorrowful, powerless one, 

As saviour, my pity hast. 

Never didst Thou know 
A woman's sweet delight. 
Never responsive hands 
Met Thine in passionate clasp. 
Never were red lips pressed 
To Thine in answering kiss. 
Never were Thy white limbs 
Entwined in a mad desire. 
Did ever a human longing 
Throb in Thy sterile heart? 

76 



Saviour, I pity Thee. 
Brother, my love Thou hast. 

Aye, like a dream Thou art. 
Vision of soul too faint. 
Distant and weakly pure. 
Mankind's hot blood Thou lack'st. 
The joys of a father's care. 
The sacred and pure delight 
Of woman's ennobling love. 
Poor and fatherless one, 
O'er-human and suffering One. 
Untempted and passionless One. 
Pity and love I give. 



BONDAGE 

Always they are there, 

The silken shackles that bind my limbs. 

In merry jest I twisted loose 

The first light thread 

Of heart-dyed gossamer. 

Long, long ago. 

Firm, tangling cords 

Now hold me bound, 

For if I cut them, 

I sever loving heart-strings. 

And I am afraid, afraid. 



77 



DREAM-REST 

Have you known it . . . the great calm?- 

Do you know the silent rest 

That comes in half-waking sleep, 

When no wish, nor a wraith of hope 

Stands before you incomplete, 

And life, like a shroud 

Earth-soiled, toil-worn. 

Lies discarded at the feet? 

So peacefully I lay 

In the dream 

Which the day-dawn brought; 

For the dream that all dreamers love 

Was for me at its waking close. 

How silent, how restful and cold 

I lay in the cradle of death. 

Close in the oaken womb, 

With my weary, life-tired hands 

Folded upon my breast . . . 

Over the world-worn heart 

Dead in my peaceful breast . . 

And in this beautiful dream 

There was naught but the consciousness 

Of a ceasing of all things . . . 

Even desire of rest. 

Tap ! Tap ! on the window pane 

Beat softly a wind-tossed vine, 

And the honeysuckle breath 

Spread a sweet pall o'er my bier. 

Outside in the golden day 

Blithe birds sang their praises of joy 

To the warm life-kiss of spring, 

That had welcomed the hills to bloom. 

From a tree in the sunlight-flood 
White, balmy blossoms fell, 

78 



And the wind sighed fretfully 

To see them drift and sink ; 

But with every sighing breath, 

More fell with resistless peace — 

For like me, their work was done. 

And we neither felt regret, 

Dread nor fear of the mother's breast . 

The kindly earth-mother's breast. 

Softly the watchers moved 

About the darkened room; 

And their voices, 

Gentle with awe. 

Were dull . . . 

Like the far-off moan 

Of a wave-swept, sunless sea. 

To me — 

The calm voiceless one — 

These friends were my friends no more 

Phantoms who came and went 

And whose sorrow no pain could stir 

In the idle dreamer's breast . 

With no dreams to disturb his rest. 

Then night came. 

The bird songs ceased, 

And those who had wept In grief 

Lay as silent in sleep as I ; 

But the petal-robbed, wailing tree 

Moaned for its robe of white . . . 

Its wind-drifted bridal wreath. 

Two flickering taper flames 
Trembled above my face; 

Orange and red they glowed. 

Frail life-blossoms of fire. 

Circling, a plumy moth 

Swept 'round the pointing lure, 

And its fluttering shadow, 

79 



Vast and black, 

Beat its huge wings forward and back, 

Until both lay silent in rest 

On the fading love-wreath laid 

Like a benison on my breast . . . 

Pale lily wreath 

On my breast. 

Without sound 

The three forms came. 

White, clear as the moon's cold glow 

Was the light of their trailing robes ; 

But scarlet as blood were their lips. 

And lustrous the longing eyes. 

Softly they circled in dance, 

And chanted a weary rune . . 

Tuneless and strange . . . 

The song 

Of the wailing w^ind in the pines: 

"To the dead give gifts 

Which the life-love stole; 

To the dead give gifts 

For the peace of the soul ; 

For the soul that is not 

When the life is o'er. 

The gifts we bring 

Are of use no more." 

Then spoke the first . . . 

The proud, full-bosomed one: 

"He lies at rest 

And worms will eat 

The beauty that I loved. 

His youth I took, 

His first gift was to me. 

I give it back — 

The worthless gift I stole; 

To the dead I give 

80 



For the peace of my soul." 

Then from her bosom fair 

A bleeding heart she tore . . . 

Her heart, so hot with lust, 

And in the candle flame 

Burned it to gray, dead ash . . , 

Fluttering ash . . . dead gray. 

Then she. 

The second one, 

With the hard Medusa eyes, 

Took from her unstirred breast 

A faded flower of blue. 

Which upon my lips she laid. 

" 'Twas this I took, 

For 'twas this, not him, I loved. 

He saw what I could not see. 

And I stole from his eyes the charm. 

But In my breast the flower died. 

. . For the peace of the soul that Is not 
When the love of the life is o'er, 
I give a gift that is dead 
As the life that can love no more." 

Then the third bent slowly down 

And pressed her scarlet lips 

Upon mv lips and brow. 

"Cold! Cold!" she said, 

"Life cold . . . 

For even death could not warm." 

And no gift she laid on my bier, 

But touched a wound on her breast . . . 

"I have nought, for I gave him all." 

Then slow came the song again, 
And the sweep of their trailing robes 
As they circled in weary dance. 
The one with the barren breast, 

8i 



The one with the eyes of stone, 
And the third with the empty hands. 

But the dead cannot be stirred 

By the royal beauty of lust, 

And the dead cannot revive 

The priceless flower of blue; 

And the dead cannot change the ash 

To the pulsing heart of youth, 

Nor kiss the aching wound 

Of the third with the empty hands. 

Phantoms that come and go, 

No sorrow nor pain can stir 

In the idle dreamer's breast; 

And the gifts that the dead receive, 

Will not break the peaceful rest. 

Have you known it . . . 
The great calm? 
Have you known the silent rest 
That comes in half-waking sleep. 
When no hope stands incomplete. 
And life, like a toil-worn shroud. 
Lies discarded at the feet? 



82 



PRAIRIE POEMS 



STRANGER-MOOD 

A cry without an echo, 

A call lost in the vastness, 

A sudden fear . . . 

Biting the heart, throttling the voice 

Such is the prairie. 

Space of blue illimitable. 
Reach of brown like level silence, 
Only the rustle of a dead weed . . 
Tree-like against the sky. 

Sun-phantoms rise . . . 
Forest and purple hill, 
City and shining lake . . . 
Gleaming memory tortures. 
Memory, vastness and calms of life . 
Such is the dead land-sea. 



NIGHT 

Death-wearily the red globe of the day 
Sank to the pit of night, then darkness leaped 
Like an o'erwhelming monster on the earth — 
Fast'ning its hungry teeth upon the land 
Till with a sigh of peace life sank to rest. 
Then ghoulish sounds swept forth into the vast; 
Fanged vulture cries, and gleaming teeth of prey, 
Sounds without soul or life it seemed to me. 
Who stared into the shroud of grim, black night 
With burning eyeballs; straining for a light 
To guide me o'er a way that knew no way. 



85. 



PEACE 

Glory of sun and glory of sky, 

Glory of earth in a splendid sweep 

Of mystic, eye-conquering majesty, 

From the purple mist of the sunrise light 

To the golden lure of the dying glow 

That crimsons the flaming west. 

A trackless, billowing ocean of earth 
With no restless, crooning laps of waves, 
No tides that rise to follow the moon, 
No foam-capped billows that surging mount 
With a rush of sound, and a spume of foam. 
And whirling circles of ebbing joy 
To the depths of the mother-strength. 

Today as I lie on a crested wave 

Of this inland, savorless, wind-swept sea, 

I do not long for the sting of spray 

On the whet of the salt-wind breath. 

The clouds move calmly above my head — 

So low it seems, that should I care 

To stretch my arm above my face, 

I could anchor a gleaming-breasted barge 

And sail to the Heart's Desire. 



86 



A MEMORY 

Above, a dome of shining blue; 
Walls of blue stretching on all sides ;- 
Gleaming, turquoise walls 
Of a vast, vaulted tomb. 

One slow, misty cloud-sail. 
Ragged and wool-white, 
White of a nun's coif 
Against the black veil-shroud, 
Drifts, drifts, drifts. 

Spirals of heat waves 
Undulating, whirling. 
Endless like a chain. 
Dancers — 
Writhing, twisting 
Dervish sunlight spectres, 
Upward, ever upward. 

No call, no Insect chirp, 
No voice of nature. 
Nothing but the blue dome, 
The gleaming turquoise walls, 
The stately galleon-cloud, 
The crisp brown grass, 
The writhing heat-coils, 
And the boy . . .^ 
Waiting! Ever waiting! 



87 



ELDORADO 

A glare of golden glory from a golden glorious noon ; 
Dazzling floods of amber sunshine over hills of 

burning sand; 
From stretch of sky to stretch of sky, a blazing field 

of gold; 
A summer-glowing prairie without a shadow cloud. 

Tall flowers, flaunting, rayed and dyed with tar- 
nished brazen tints, 

A cornfield sere, with rattling leaves, like glinting 
strips of brass, 

Parched, billowing waves of golden wheat, with 
gleaming topaz sown, 

A sluggish, winding river, that floats a golden sun. 

The furnace wind spits up the sand in spectral whirls 

of gold ; 
The butterflies, bejeweled, like dancing sunbeams 

wreathe ; 
A liquid flow of treasure streams o'er the silent 

plain . . . 
A Danae shower on a land which gasps for floods 

of rain. 



TO A GRAY BIRD 

Whirr of wings and mother-cry. 
Beating of bird wings into the blue, 
A tiny nest in the sere, brown grass — 
A worshipful home of love. 

No song, no liquid alluring note 
Will thy nestlings have, oh, mother-bird, 
For softly we speak, and softly we sing, 
And softly we breathe our sighs of pain 
In the crush of this death of sound. 

88 



STORM-STRENGTH 

Master of the world! 

Shout! Shout to the winds! 

Winds that sigh and winds that shriek, 

Winds that moan, and rave, and sink 

To a sudden lull of whispered spring, 

And I alone hear their song of songs — 

I alone in a lonely land; 

For summit-throned and silence-crowned, 

Warring with winds I proudly stand 

The master of the world. 

Raven clouds and clouds of dun. 

Vapor white and fierj^-edged . . . 

Sunset-burning banners of war . . 

Storm-war, in mighty world 

Of majesty and endless reach. 

The Valkyries ride to and fro 

With thundrous shout and stabs of light 

Wild rush and rage of heaven-war ; 

But, fear not. I know no fear. 

My heart, my soul are with them there; 

I fight the winds with cr^^ of joy, 

I greet the swords with fearless eye . . 

I alone in a lonely land, 

Fighting w^ith nature proudly stand 

The master of the world. 



89 



A DREAM-TRYST 

Like two soul-atoms 

Stranded on a vast silence-sea, 

We lay at rest in the sun-glowing hills of sand. 

Stately cloud-swans floated in white calm 

Through the blue peace-depths. 

Free roving East winds — 

That heed no time nor space — 

Whispered, tauntingly whispered, 

Of dark forest glades 

Where birds sing. 

. . . Noon had long passed. 
Great purple shadows 
Oozed blot-sudden 
From the yellow sand. 

. . . Slowly, slowly. 
The poppy-wine of sleep 
Crept through her veins. 
And upon her wistful lips, 
A smile like sunshine lay. 

. . . Softly she laughed — 

A golden laugh of joy — 

For in dream-haste her soul had sped 

To a spring-wreathed orchard nook, 

Where rose-pale petals, honey sweet, 

Dripped on the violet-scented grass. 

. . . Heart-fair, as long ago. 

Her love stepped through the curtains 

Of the long veiled past. 

And with youth-warm lover lips 

Greeted her soul. 

. . . A sacred sleep — 
A dreaming love-tryst. 

90 



I hid my face and prayed. 

"Oh, Master! 
Her burden will I bear ; 
But let her not awake 
To the lonely, sun-hot hills. 

"Oh, Master! 
Strike in sleep, 
And let her not return 
To the vast, brown silence-sea.' 



A PRAIRIE STORM 



The morning dawn . . . 

A sky as hard as crystal stone; 

A dazzling vault of brilliant blue, 

With a mist that hangs like a smear of blood 

In the distant east, where the brazen sun 

Starts on his cloudless, burning course 

O'er a treeless plain, — a shadowless land. 

No cooling draughts, like sparkling wine. 
Can be drained from the sullen southern wind, 
That flaunts its puffs of hellish heat, 
Its weaves from a burning hell of sand, 
Into the throats that stifle and ache 
For a breath of springing life. 

II 

Noon. We curse, we raise our hands 

And threaten God. We silently pray. 

We gaze from our door 

On a mirage-lake, like a polished shield. 

We lazily lie 

And watch a mighty forest rise, 

91 



With waving trees, long aisles of trees, 

And shadows flung on cool, damp moss; 

Flung like an emerald fantasy 

On the sere, brown grass. 

In our aching brains 

We hear the ripple of a stream 

Through a sedge of lily bloom. 

. . . We laugh. 

We have galloped far on our race-swift thoughts. 
That is all ; for the lake, the trees. 
And the murmuring, cooling, limpid stream, 
Are the constant, maddening phantom lures 
Of a lying brain and a longing heart. 

. We laugh. 
''The trees, I see them there. 
I hear the brook b)^ the orchard wall. 
A blue-bird springs, like a turquoise note 
Of marvelous song, from the berry vines. 
I hear the wind 

Sigh through the long, lush orchard grass." 
. . . Oh, yes, we laugh, but the slender band, 
Forged by the heat from the brazen sky, 
Tightens and tightens around our brains. 
We laugh, we laugh — 
The mockery 

Of the spectre lake and the spectre wood, 
Is a merry thing. 
We laugh like men 

Whose hearts and brains have been slow^ly seared 
To a withered kernel in a nut ; 
A rattle of laughter in a shell ; 
We laugh to hear the sound. 



Ill 



See, like devils climbing a hill, 

Two writhing dust-whirls suddenly rise; 

92 



Black, wriggling devils against the gray, 
A sudden gray in the northern sky. 

Storm? 

We dare not speak the word. 

Rain! 

The brain whirls with the thought 

Of cooling showers from a cloud. 

A cloud? 

We spring to our feet with a sob. 

There! See, it rises above the plain; 

A tiny, slumberous, timid cloud 

Like a gray-blue bird that has flown ahead 

Of its onward sweeping rush for mates. 



IV 



A puff of fiery, scorching wind 

From over the crest of the southern hills. 

And the whitish breast of the gray cloud-bird 

Ruffles and breaks; another gust, 

And the bird drifts back with broken wings. 

And flying feathers of spotless white. 

The sun has conquered. 

We cast ourselves on the parching earth 

And shut our eyes. 

. . . We laugh again, 

Grim, hopeless laughs of dull despair. 



V 



"Look there!" 

The whirling devils rise again, 
Three reckless, spinning swirls of dust, 
In spiral curls, like the rising smoke 
Of a racing, flameless ball of fire. 

93 



A cheer leaps to the throat, then dies. 

The knotted fists of sudden hope 

Grow limp again. 

We do not laugh, 

We wait, tense-nerved. 

Like a swift machine 

The pulse of blood clicks through our hearts. 

We do not speak, 

We cannot pray, 

We dare not curse. 

We only wait. 

The eager breath 

Steals through our nostrils like a thief; 

Light-footed, greedy, scenting death, 

And longing for the treasure-prey. 

VI 

No bigger than my sun-browned hand, 
Is the heavy-browed advancing cloud, 
That leers from o'er the northern edge 
Of the glowing plain. 
Blinking with light, afraid to stir, 
Advancing, retreating, advancing again, 
Puffing in piquant, pigmy wrath. 
Restlessly beckoning, flaunting a flag 
Like a banner torn from the robe of night; 
A ragged, blackened pennant of war. 

Hurtling, blustering sweeps the wind 

From the monarch south 

Where hell's furnace glows; 

It jeerlngly tosses the tumble weeds. 

And sings a song of derisive glee 

To the dry bunch grass. 

Then suddenly. 

With a sneering sigh of ennui. 

It sprawls flat bellied upon the land 

And yawns in the face of the glaring sun. 

94 



VII 



The cloud, the flag, 
See them onward come, 
Like a rush of carrions, huge, black winged. 
They spring o'er the edge of the level plain, 
And a wing from a giant, bloodshot eye 
Reddens the belching northern sky 
To a flush of crimson glow. 
A grumbling laugh, like the far-off peal 
Of cannon bursts — 
Then a silence so deep. 
So strangely profound. 
So vast in its clutch, 

That we start to our feet and suddenly look 
One to the other, with frightened eyes. 
"Was it death that passed? — 
Has life died out, like a flickering flame 
In a playful wind?" 



VIII 

Hot blasts come forth from the south again ; — 
Sweeping monarchs of strutting pride. 
That flaunt and fume, 
And trail their cloaks 
O'er the field of wheat. 
Till it bows with the weight. 

A slender warrior from the north. 

The vanguard of the enemy, 

Whistles cheerily like a bird 

Through the shivering spikes of the bayonet. 

Then a stronger force of cooling winds 

Sweeps o'er the prairie. 

And stirs the grain 

To a gossiping whirr of sound. 

95 



Onward and onward come the clouds 

With all the glorious panoply 

Of a rush of war. 

And we, and we, 

Weak motes of men, 

'Neath the carnival rage of nature's might, 

We lie and wait; 

We feel the thrilling soul of war. 

The love of war, 

The fear and rage; 

The elemental battle love 

Of fight and smell of gory wounds; — 

The clash of steel 'gainst clash of steel. 



IX 



They meet, those mighty warrior winds. 
They meet and struggle. 
Inch by inch, battalions of the purple cloud 
Sweep onward like a tidal wave 
Into the smiling southern sky. 
Billows of cloud with froth of spume, 
Spindrift white and pallid green, 
Crimson sudden with bursts of blood 
From the wounds of the lightning's flame. 
Shrieks of pain from the furnace wind. 
Cries of rage as it battles brave. 
Whirling high the powder dust, 
Hither and thither flinging the weeds. 
The cornstalks writhe and twist and moan ; 
The wheatfield hisses like a snake 
As the demon winds in their lust of hate. 
Sweep forward, backward, trampling it low. 



X 



Might and power, rage and wreck! 
We stand and laugh in fevered glee, 



96 



Like ancient gods we throw the dice 

In gaming zest to see which wins. 

We cry, we shout, we urge them on. 

A storm of hate bursts from our hearts: 

''Stifle the sun, brave raven wings; 

Stifle the blazing ball of fire 

That gnaws like acid in our brains, 

With its hateful heat and glowing light. 

Stifle his flame with your sodden cloaks. 

Drench his fire with j^our mighty wealth 

Of pent up, silvery, cooling rain. 

He has been king, he has been god. 

We want no god of golden strength. 

But a silvery globe of soothing calm. 

That will beam like a smile upon the earth." 

XI 

Hurrah, hurrah, a victory! 

Above is a mighty surging sea 

Of tossing black and olive wave. 

The sun is dead, the light of earth 

Is a murky, sullen, dying gold ; 

A sickly dun, like the pallid face 

Of the newly dead. 

Along the edge of the prairie world 

Is a tangled, trailing, purple mist 

Of falling rain. 

Like sighing music it onward comes, 

Like the loving kiss that we give the dead. 

While the warm tears fall like the soothing prayer 

For endless peace. 



XII 



A gem. A pearl. 
It fell in my hand 
With a burst of sound. 



97 



Another. There, 

The mist it comes, 

Like raven tresses sweeping the ground ; 

Like gleaming jewels that tinkling fall 

From a broken strand; 

A treasure coffer burst with its weight; 

A fall of diamonds to the ground. 

We laugh and shout, 

We shout and sing, 

The treasure of the war is ours; 

P^or life and health and strength and love, 

All fall with the crystal rain. 



98 



A NIGHT RIDE ON THE PRAIRIE 

Hillo! Away! 

No whip, no spur. 

Off with the winds we go. 

Fleet as the winds, and yet too slow 

For the rush of our youth-impelled desire. 

We skim the earth, my horse and I ; 

Deep draughts we drink of freedom-joy; 

Our blood mounts, surging with delight. 

Till like a centaur, winged with flame, 

We free ourselves from crush of earth, 

And soaring, rise among the stars. 

Ho-la! Ho-hiUo! 

Over a mystic world we go. 

Silent and vast as the realm of death. 

But what care we ? We are free, we are free ! 

One soul in freedom, one soul in speed. 

No master we own, we dare and defy 

All death, all life. For little we heed 

What lies beyond the breadth of land. 

Where the reckless hoofs beat a ringing chime 

To the pulse of blood in our breasts. 

Ho-la! Ho-hillo! 

Like a cleaving arrow we onward go. 

The earth is black; the world above 

Is a distant city lit with stars. 

We shall reach those lights, 

We shall know that land, 

When we cross the purple mist between. 

That lies like a lake of dazzling sheen, 

O'er which the moon floats lazily, 

Like a bowl of gold in a fathomless sea. 

It mounts the cloud-waves one by one; 

It dashes aside the swirls of spume 

That lap, white-capped, in its flood of glow. 

99 



Lofai 



We shall wrest a crown from that halo-gleam ; 
We shall tear a robe, a monarch cloak, 
From that shimmering, billowing rainbow sail, 
If we only onward go. 

We must race like thought. 

Speed like a curse. 

Leap like fire through a heart of love. 

We must follow the radiant golden bowl 

Till it anchors cold in the arctic sky, 

'Mid the drifting bergs of snow-white cloud 

That floats in the sunrise sea. 

Ho and Hillo! Steadily now! 

Wearily, shivering, onward we go. 

Stumbling hoofs and straining breasts; 

Faster and faster, with aching hearts; 

For a red gash brightens the eastern sky, 

A dawn of mist that bathes the earth 

In a fall of crimson rain. 

On and on, with a burning brain. 

For the bowl of gold is sailing away 

To the far-off west. I curse. I pray. 

I stretch my hands through a swirl of dust 

That a mocking wind hurls into my face. 

Once stop — 

Ah, the bowl is forever lost! 

Weary and vanquished, I watch it sink 

In a rushing flood of day. 



100 



THE PRAIRIE SCOURGE 

I. Yesterday 

A blur of smoke against the sky . 
A line of copper-lurid glow . 
A wave of glare, a sea of fire, 
A tidal rush of ravening flame, 
Leaping, leaping higher and higher, 
Mounting, mounting, daring the sun. 
Till the clouds burn like embers red, 
Till the singeing blue is a murky brown. 
And all the world in the measured round 
Of sky that sinks to the burning ground, 
Is hot with the heat of hell. 

Eager drainings of leaping fire, 

That dart from the splash of a wind-sprawled flame. 

Hither and thither scurry like dogs 

That scent through the grass for game. 

No game they seek, no hunt they know. 

But a burning lust for the width of all, 

And an aching greed for the reach of sky; 

To mount and possess, to possess and die. 

They crackle, they laugh, and the spark-blood flies 

From the writhing, hissing stems of grass. 

"Onward! Onward!" they seem to cry; 

"All must be ours. Leave nothing to greet 

The rosy glow of a new born day. 

The world is ours for an hour of play, 

A dancing hour of devil-glee; 

A battle of might with a glare of blood ; — 

Our glare, our might, our crimson light 

Of the lurid blood of the fallen prey. 

Our rioting blood of life. 

Then on and on till the whole world lies, 

Sucked clean of Its red, of Its strength, of its life, 

And dull gray spectres we leave behind 

On a blackened field of war." 

lOI 



II. To-day 

The smoke wreathes upward, spectre-gray, 
From a carnage field of bloodless slain. 
White, fluttering ash-doves rise at my step. 
And sink to their blackened nests again. 
Without sound of life, or strength of death. 

Dark mourning veils of slumberous smoke 
Hang heavily skyward; hiding the earth 
From the pitiless glare of the king of fire; 
The monarch sun, who is fain to gaze 
On the grimly silent battlefield. 
Where his cohorts fought in splendid rage, 
And fell to arise no more. 

A snake gleams greedily from its lair; 
A whirl of smoke, the rising soul 
Of a cactus shrub, curls lazily 
Upward and upward into the gray. 
One red coal from a crust of black, — 
Leeringly gloats, like a drunken eye, 
Sated and bloody with o'er-gorged lust. 
Three weary antelope wander by. 
Their faces turned to the southern way, 
Where the river crawls so sluggishly 
Through its bed of murky ooze. 

A heavy-winged bird, hook-billed and strong. 
Sails like a curse through the misty day ; 
Keen-taloned it swoops . . . And I, and I, 
With a snake and a vulture, a mourning sky 
And a blackened world ; I laugh and cry 
To the wind that sweeps from the green-robed east 
"See my kingdom . . . my land of death." 



102 



WITH THE FOG 
I 

Where Is the velvety vastness of brown 
That yesterday stretched like the cycles of time, 
O'envhelming and infinite, measureless, proud, 
Grandly august In Its nihil strength? 

Where Is the dome of glittering blue. 
The turquoise cup which walls my land 
And marks the borders of my domain, 
My kingdom of lonely breadth? 

Cool mists He over the earth, a veil 

That hides the dun monotony; 

No whisper of life comes with the day, 

No breath of actuality. 

I stand In the calm of this fallen cloud. 

And naught can I see but the shifting gleams 

Of a whirling, eddying drift of gray 

That broods like peace upon the land. 

Blissfully restful this sombre change; 

Mystical, tempting, the phantoms gay 

That wTeathe and swirl and beckon to me ; 

Wan spectres have crept from their silent realms 

To conquer the world today. 

n 

Three steps — the walls of the low sod house 
Are violet faint. Five steps — a mound 
Of amethyst earth. Now It Is lost. 
Who cares! I shall follow the misty wraiths. 
And give my soul to the ashen dawn. 

HI 

How far are the borders of this land, 
This fairy world of drifting gems? 

103 



Shall I reach the castle of its king? 
. . . I am a youth with a Sigurd-sword, 
And the dragon lies somewhere asleep, 
Concealed in this billowing surf of sky. 
Perchance he dreams in heavy ease 
Beneath that pall of silver sheen 
That lies, a snare, before my feet. 
Be on your guard, unsheathe the sword. 
Who knows what ugly lust or fear. 
May lear with hungry satyr-grin. 
Through those drifts of thistle-down. 

Well, what of that? Why should I fear? 

Ogre killing! Upon my soul! 

I strangle a monster every day. 

Oh, yes, and without a vestige of dread, — 

Not even remorse, — grim Ennui. 

He chooses my heart for his restless lair, 

Yawns, regrets and frets wuth me. 

Taunts me: "You cannot leap the gulf 

Of vacant years to the future's kiss." 

Ah, well, we may grope for each other now. 

Through this tangle of lustrous fog. 



IV 



I wander now as a troubadour 
Through a dim, enchanted mystery; 
Beyond that hill of springtide rose 
Lies a maiden, bound by sorcery; 
She sleeps upon a primrose bank. 
Dreaming in soul-peace till I come, 
I, the hero of romance, 
The heart-god of her dreams. 

In silken hose and doublet gay, 
With lilt of lusty love-lord song. 
Blood-burning philtres in my veins, 

104 



I'll storm the hill impatiently, 
My dream-maid's lips to kiss, and say, 
"My love, I love!" And she — yes, she, 
Will wake with glowing heart to me. 

And should the grim magician guard ? 
Slay him. Of course. No other w^ay. 
Youth, virile youth bears the sesame 
To tear the bars of the gates away. 
Love is for youth, and she is love ; 
His age and gold are far too cold 
When blood and song are in the scale. 

But the hill of dawn-rose drifts away, 
And a shining wall stands in its place. 



V 

That wall of gold with sapphire flecked 

And stained w ith spots of russet rust, 

What does it hold . . . shall I go on 

And solve its tempting secrecy ? 

All sinuous, mystical sins bloom there, 

Passions half-dreamed, half-guessed, half-grasped; 

Alluring dreams like Circe spells 

That burn and madden with subtle joys. 

The blood, like fire, mounts from my heart; 
My veins ache with a strange desire; 
I long with greed for the unknown bliss, 
And call through the fog with lust of youth. 
"Eros, stretch forth thy arms to me! 
Open the gates, thy face reveal. 
All-mighty one, at thy shrine I kneel 
And my years know not satiety. 

Thy portals unclose or tliy rust-smeared walls 
With their radiant, gem-flecked lures of light, 

105 



Shall fall before my fierce, wild rush 
Of youth-awakened chastity. 

With thirsty haste my lips will yield 
To thy cup of flame, thy Lethe brew; 
Poison ! Yes, but a honeyed drink, 
Let age and pain be the antidote. 

. Ah, the wall of mystery fades to white. 
Turrets and battlements frown in my face. 



VI 



A castle of shimmering, stainless pearl. 

Rises from out a lake of gold, 

Where silence and shadow brood like palls 

Over its mystic depths. 

For beyond those walls Amfortas lies 

With the wound in his tortured breast; 

And I ... I am bringing the Holy Grail 

Safe from my knightly quest. 

For this did the rose-pale dream of love, 

Fade away like a sigh of regret ; 

For this fell the temple of w^ondrous sin 

With its sensuous crush of mystery. 

Had I followed the tempting Kundry thoughts, 

The tiny Grail which I bear in my breast. 

And feed with my dreams, my life, my soul, 

Would have lost its healing strength. 

How shall I kneel to the w^ounded king — 
As a faithful friend who gives his all? 
Do I come as a patriot, thirsting with love 
For the hearthstone of my sires? 
Shall I offer the sacred Grail in my breast 
To the ever-beckoning hand of Fame, 
Or cast it upon the altar of pain 
Like a proud, man-loving Christ. 

1 06 



Too late! The castle of pearl has sunk. 
A tangle of color takes its place. 



VII 

I join in the revel with tremulous joy. 
Soft whispers answer my cries of song, 
And breaths of wonderment, budding sounds 
Sighingly creep to me. Life rebounds. 
Far in the gray burns a misty light, 
A ruby gleam in a crystal globe. 
With circlet halo of amber beams . . . 
I stand and watch its peaceful glow. 

From whence does it come . 

How far have I gone? 

Do I stand upon the brink of life 

And gaze at the soul of the universe? 

Is that flame like the scarlet of garnet husks. 

The blood-red soul of the ancient Pan, 

Palpitant, eager with fecund strength? 

Is that luminous circlet of amber the crown 

Of the courage of faith, renouncement of earth? 

Oh, wonderful, glorious mystery, 

Yield but a glimpse of thy truth to me ! 

What shall I see when the mist-veils rise? 

Hosts upon hosts of white-winged souls 

Kneeling in abnegation-praise 

Around a throne of ivory, 

Where the Power sits in majesty, 

Stern-browed, insatiable, pitiless, keen 

For his all devouring lust of love? 

Or shall I see but the living flame 

Of the universal forge of life ; 

Creating, destroying, wasteful in strength 

With the conscious surge of its rush of years. 

107 



Will He look at me in love or hate? 
Will He frown because I fear nor love? 
Will He cast me forth in a curse of rage 
To the desolate, sun-baked plain again? 
Shall I fall, a mote in the hazy blue 
To where the dancing flames of hell 
Prick upward like hungry serpent fangs? 
What if the Brother, — the Sacrifice, — 
Should clasp me close to his wounded breast 
In a fervor of love? 
. . . I throw myself upon the earth, 
I close my e3^es in fear, and wait. 

VHI 

Now I soar through space like a great-winged bird. 

The fog is chill, a charnel breath 

From the myriad graves of the buried past. 

The whispering sighs creep forth again ; 

A sudden glow of warmth 

Steals through my veins ... A flood of light 

Beams like a smile through my close shut eyes, 

And I feel the soul of life burn down 

Deep into mine . . . 

Slowly, in longing, and half in fear, 
I open my eyes to the dazzling blue, 
Where a cloud floats like a fleecy dove. 
I hear the gossiping of the corn ; 
The prairie glistens with gems of light, 
Strung like beads upon blades of grass. 
Before me — the w^alls of the low sod house. 
Where a light in the window beckons to me. 
You come to the door and call — I sob — 
One sob of joy, for I know and am glad. 



1 08 



LIBRARY OF CONGRES«? 

mwmmmi 

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